When I'm with him, there is someone with me in my house of grief, someone who knows its architecture as I do, who can walk with me, from room to sorrowful room, making the whole rambling structure of wind and emptiness not quite as scary, as lonely as it was before.

How could a mother who boils water for pasta leave two little girls behind?

It's such a colossal effort not to be haunted by what's lost, but to be enchanted by what was.

I always imagined music trapped inside my clarinet, not trapped inside of me. But what if music is what escapes when a heart breaks?

I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

Someone might as well roll up the whole sky, pack it away for good.

Music: what life, what living itself sounds like.